Dying Declarative
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock thinks he is dying, and the only person he wants at his bedside is Molly Hooper. But can she keep a straight face in the face of all his drama? Sherlolly


It was a cold, damp, and dreary day in London. This was nothing unusual, as it was often cold, damp, and dreary in the capital city. But on this particular day, when it started to rain, Sherlock Holmes was inclined to believe that even the heavens were weeping at his impending demise. Yes, the world's best, and only, consulting detective, was thoroughly convinced that he was at death's door, and only regretted the manner of his passing. He had survived various poisons, several head wounds, a few stabbings, and one notable bullet to the chest, but it seems the grim reaper had finally chosen to make his appearance in the guise of an insignificant microbe of some sort. How impossibly anticlimactic!

For the past couple of weeks the detective had felt what started as a general malaise. Now every bone and joint in his once fit body seemed to ache. His mouth was dry, and his body was developing unexplained bruises and spots. The fatigue he was experiencing he would have described as soul deadening, if he believed in the existence of the soul . The man who had seldom slept, except when absolutely necessary, could barely keep himself from collapsing onto the nearest horizontal surface. His eyelids felt like the lashes were composed of solid lead, taking quite an effort on his part to keep them open. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was convinced he was shuffling off this mortal coil, and found himself going quietly into that good night, not having the strength to rage at the dying of the light. All he needed was a doctor to confirm his self-diagnosis.

The doomed detective could have called his best friend, and personal physician, John Watson, to confirm his impending demise, and, perhaps, give him a timeline for his declining days. But he found it was not John's face which he wanted to see hovering over his deathbed. He would be concerned, sympathetic, and caring. But Sherlock wanted the comfort of one Dr. Molly Hooper, she of the gentle eyes and the kind soul. For, Sherlock had to admit, if anyone really did have a soul, it was Molly Hooper. Yes, he had to confess to himself, he wanted Molly. His pathologist. His Molly. His love. So, gathering what strength he could muster, he picked up his mobile to text her the following message.

I AM VERY SICK POSSIBLY DYING. I NEED YOU. PLEASE.- SHERLOCK

Feeling exhausted by the effort, and possibly just for dramatic effect despite the fact that he had no audience at the moment, Sherlock then flopped back heavily onto his pillow, allowing a martyr-like sigh to escape his lips. He barely had the strength, he thought, to read her reply, which had arrived almost immediately.

HAVE YOU EATEN SOMETHING FROM YOUR FRIDGE AGAIN? TAKE SOME BICARBONATE AND CALL ME IN THE MORNING. - MOLLY

HAVE EATEN NOTHING IN TWO DAYS. TOO WEAK. FAILING FAST. PLEASE COME - SHERLOCK

His repeating of the word "please" caused alarm bells to go off in Molly's mind, so she reached for her coat and bag as she texted her reply.

ON MY WAY. - MOLLY

Sherlock lie in his bed, knowing that the woman was on her way to him as quickly as possible. He should have called on her sooner. But, then again, there were a lot of things that he should have done sooner. He was only grateful, as he faced his final farewell, that he had made arrangements for such an occasion. Since he had reached his majority, Sherlock had been the recipient of a monthly stipend from the Holmes family trust. A rather healthy stipend. As he did not possess his brother Mycroft's extravagant tastes, aside from a good tailor, Sherlock found that he had accumulated a rather astonishing amount of liquid assets. Not that anyone else was aware of the fact. When they were living together, John simply assumed that they ate beans on toast several times a week because they were on the verge of bankruptcy. Had he ever asked, Sherlock would have informed him that he simply liked beans on toast. So, knowing that he had significant funds to distribute at his demise, and not wishing Mycroft to benefit, Sherlock had long ago written a will, and recently modified it to allow for the addition of his godchild, Claire Watson. Her education, and other necessities would be well provided for. But the primary beneficiary of this testament was one Dr. Molly Hooper.

Molly had no idea, of course. Molly didn't seem to have any idea about a lot of things concerning one Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock had always believed that he would live long enough to eventually let her in on some of these things. Like the fact that he wanted to dive into her dimples, and tangle himself in her long brown hair. That he could happily drown himself in the melted chocolate of her eyes. That he wanted to protect her, and provide for her, and love her for the rest of his life. He wanted to make her happy, and now he could only make her mourn. But she would be taken care of after his death, and that provided some comfort.

Molly arrived not so long after sending her text, and entered the bedroom to find the detective sleeping fitfully in his room. He awakened as she put her hand on his forehead. "No fever, Sherlock. What are your symptoms?"

"I'm dying, Molly!"

"That's a prognosis, Sherlock. And one made by an amateur, to boot! Now, tell me your symptoms."

"Every bone and joint aches. Especially my legs. My mouth is like a desert. I'm covered in spots, little reddish blue spots. And bruises! It looks like some tiny little creatures are beating me in my sleep! And they have plenty of opportunity to do so, as I am having trouble keeping my eyes open! Are you a doctor or not, Molly. Surely you can see for yourself!"

"Ah, let's add irritability to that list, shall we? Although with you, it can be hard to tell." She smiled gently down at the man who annoyed her more than anyone in the world, and pried open an eyelid as she remarked, "Ah, marked petechiae…" Her voice drifted off, then, "Do you have a pair of tweezers, Sherlock?"

"In the medicine chest in the bathroom, I believe, although what new torture…"

Dr. Hooper wasn't really paying attention as she left the room. Returning shortly, tweezers in hand, she approached the bed and, removing his covers and rolling up the leg of his pajama bottoms, she plucked a hair from his shin, and then moved to examine it in the light of his bedside lamp. It was a tiny little corkscrew. "Ah, Sherlock. I've only seen this once before. A boy I was at Uni with. He was the life of the party. Friendly, outgoing, living from party to party on lager, and chips, and cigarettes…"

"And…"

"Everybody missed him so much after he was gone…"

"Gone?", Sherlock murmured rather pathetically. "How long did he live, Molly? Tell me, I can take it…"

"Sherlock," Molly said, growing serious. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and gently putting her hand on his bare chest, spoke in a quiet tone, "There is something I have always wanted to tell you, and, I suppose, now is the perfect time…"

"No, Molly, let me say it first. I need to say it, perhaps more than you." The detective spoke frantically. "I have never been honest with you, or even kind to you, but I have to tell you this before it is too late." He then took a deep breath, and placed his large hand on top of hers, covering it completely. "I love you, Molly Hooper." And as he looked up at his pathologist, with a look of desperation on his face, he was a bit surprised to see her burst into a spontaneous barrage of giggles!

"Hardly the reaction for which I was hoping, Dr. Hooper. Care to explain?"

"Oh god, Sherlock," the woman said, fighting for control, "I love you, too. But surely you know that. Bloody hell, everyone knows that!" Her hand was still trapped under the detective's, and he did not seem about to let go. "But that's not what I've always wanted to say. Well, it is actually! But there was something else, too!"

"And what, pray tell, would that be, Dr. Hooper?", the man said rather sharply.

Molly fought once again to regain her composure, sat up straight, looked him in the eye, and said, "Sherlock Holmes, go suck on a lemon!"

"What?"

Molly went on to explain, "You have scurvy, Sherlock!"

"Scurvy?" Sherlock Holmes look completely nonplussed by the diagnosis. "Scurvy? Is it fatal?"

"Only to eighteenth century pirates who are at sea for months, or even years, on end and, therefore, have no access to fresh fruits and veggies, you git. But, it seems it can also be a hazard to detectives who live off coffee, chips, crisps, and nicotine patches. And the occasional irresponsible student! You definitely need someone to look after you, Sherlock." Molly sighed, and smiled down at the man in the bed who still held her hand to his beautifully spotted chest. "Scurvy seems rather appropriate, though, given that Mycroft once spilled the beans about your childhood ambition to be a buccaneer!" And she was laughing once again.

"But you friend, from Uni…"

"Yes, we all did miss him quite a lot after he was gone, but his mother came to collect him, and get him back on a healthy diet, so…"

"Not dead, then?" Sherlock said, slightly chagrinned.

"No, very much alive, and running the family waste management business. Never did come back to school, though…"

"I'm not going to die, then?"

"No, Sherlock, you're not going to die. At least, not from scurvy. Vitamin C tablets, and fresh fruit will have you right as rain in no time at all. A few days, that's all, and you'll be feeling much better. And, by the way, there are no take-backs." Molly tapped her head. "I have made a mental recording of everything you said…"

"Molly, will my treatment require bed rest? I feel in need of an extensive period of time in bed. Definitely. And, given my predilection for such an unhealthy lifestyle, perhaps you could join me, to, as you said, look after me? You wouldn't want me to come down with beri beri, would you? Or rickets?" And as he reached up to pull her closer, the physician noted that his lethargy and fatigue seemed to have suddenly abated, for it was with alarming enthusiasm that his lips met hers, and vice versa.

A few days later, Sherlock was sitting on the couch in his sitting room, still clad in pajamas. He was getting far more rest on the couch that he had in his bed the last few days. Molly had gone back to her flat to collect some clothes and other necessities, including her cat, Toby, who was now sleeping comfortably on the detective's lap. She was now puttering about in the kitchen, preparing to bring him yet another glass of orange juice. Sherlock mused that perhaps she was conditioning him just as Pavlov had conditioned his dogs. If he drank yet another glass of juice without complaint, he would be rewarded appropriately. And he did,he thought to himself, so enjoy Molly's reward system!

As he started to swallow the juice, the couple was interrupted by a knock at the door, and John Watson entered, wearing a pirate hat and brandishing a plastic cutlass. "Avast, me hearties!", he best friend said with what Sherlock assumed was supposed to be a pirate accent. "Shiver me timbers!"

Sherlock turned from his best friend to his, well, he hated to call her "girlfriend", and "lover" sounded just so, ah, French, he thought, and ever so slightly disreputable, so he simply thought of her as his Molly. Soon to be "fiance", he hoped, and after that, well, you know.

"Dr. Hooper, may I assume that doctor/patient confidentiality means nothing to you?"

"Relax, Sherlock. It was too good not to tell somebody. And it could have been much worse."

The detective looked at his Molly questioningly, as if to ask, "How?"

"I could have told your Mummy!"

Sherlock studied the diminutive woman with a sneer, and taking her in his arms, growled in his best pirate voice, "Arrrgh!"


End file.
